Carving Out a Smile
by Blazebeard13
Summary: Not all Guardians are legendary. Some are just trying to figure out where they belong. What their existence really means. A few Guardians ponder this, as they do what they can to make a difference in the world they were thrust back into.
1. Chapter 1

Ode to a Rookie

It wasn't that he wasn't grateful. Another chance at life? Seeing the solar system? Learning the truths of the universe? That was all well and good, but if the Traveler could bring him back from the dead and give him powers that were unimaginable to him in his old life, why couldn't he have made him better at using them?

He had been fairly lucky up until now, the Fallen he had faced were hardly a challenge. Even if his aim wasn't the steadiest in the Vanguard. The Hive had utterly terrified him, as had the Cabal. He was pretty sure he had totally blocked his memories of the few times he had fought the Vex. If it wasn't for his ghost, and his companions, he probably wouldn't be standing on Venus right now, waiting for another guardian to crush him without a second thought.

His companions. His friends. Oh, had he been lucky to find them! They had found him outside the Vanguards' chambers. Back to the wall, hyperventilating. Trying to stitch memories back together. There were two of them, a Titan and a Hunter. Seasoned veterans, he could tell.

The Titan introduced himself as Sixty-Eight, apparently the only part of his name he could remember when he woke. An Exo like himself, the Titan was just that. Titanic. More than a head taller than himself, his armor shone in the fluorescent lights. There were so many bullet holes and scratches on it, he was surprised it still functioned. Sixty-Eight had pulled him to his feet, and slapped his back so hard he had no choice but to stop hyperventilating.

The Hunter grabbed his shoulders, kept him from falling over. "Take it easy there Warlock, nothing to be scared of here," he had said. The Hunter grabbed his hand and forced him into a handshake. He said his name was Jack, he couldn't believe an Awoken had such a bland name. Perhaps he had just adopted it? It didn't matter then or now. His cloak didn't quite reach the floor. It was tattered yes, but it seemed like the fraying was more from time rather than from excessive damage.

Their meeting was the catalyst for a long-lasting relationship. He wasn't sure why they kept him around, it seemed to him like they used more of their light reviving him than using it to kill their enemies. He appreciated their patience in the field. He knew his aim could use some work. Or a gun without so much Traveler-damned recoil. His powers had developed acceptably, Void light being his weapon of choice. It seemed to do the job well enough.

One day after a rocky mission, they had been approached by Lord Shaxx himself. He said was impressed, said the Crucible could use more skilled combatants to train others. Well… he had said that to his friends. It didn't take a genius to figure out he had been one of the "others" that Shaxx had mentioned. Jack and Sixty-Eight had quickly accepted. They had needed a new challenge. Besides, no one refused a direct request from Lord Shaxx.

So this had been his life for a while now. Head to a Crucible arena. Gear up. Get psyched. Make jokes to his friends about how well he was going to do. Listen to the bets Sixty-Eight and Jack made (Sixty-Eight usually lost, though not by much). Touch down planet-side. Join the initial advance. Die repeatedly.

It was the last part that bothered him. The minions of the Darkness were chumps compared to these battle-hardened Guardians. "Dying" had become commonplace, his ghost was usually very quiet at the end of every match. He wondered if the little light ever had regrets about him. He tried not to think about it too much.

He supposed this was better than actually dying to the ravenous hordes of the Darkness. Perhaps the Crucible really would beat the flaws out of him, like Shaxx always said. Maybe it would make him a guardian the City could be proud of. It was hard to believe that as he was taken out by yet another Warlock that had appeared from nothingness in front of him, shotgun at the ready. Blinking… he had never really gotten the hang of it. It made him sick whenever he tried it.

The bottom of the scoreboard was his home. His friends took the top usually, he was proud of them. It was incredible to see them in action. To see Jack pick off other guardians' heads like he was in a shooting range or watch Sixty-Eight obliterate the other team in one fell Arc lightning-charged swoop.

He would keep trying. It certainly wasn't much fun being burned away to ashes or punched in the face over and over again. But he would keep trying.

Venus really was beautiful. Its bright yellows and green made a beautiful backdrop for the carnage about to ensue. He wondered if his other guardians ever looked around before they raced forward to meet the other team head on. Sol was beautiful at this distance, not like on Mercury. It was a little too oppressive for his liking there.

He looked to the horizon. He saw the Vex compounds sprout from the wilderness like so many malignant tumors. It infuriated him. He may not have the skills to stop them now, but he would see those geometric eye sores fall. One way or another.

A hand on his shoulder removed him from his reverie.

"Hey, you okay man?" It was Sixty-Eight, his mechanical voice full of concern. The massive rifle magnetized to his back didn't seem to hinder him at all. Jack stood behind him, sniper rifle hefted over his shoulder. The rest of their six man team must have already ran ahead.

"Yea… yea, I'll be fine." He was glad his helmet hid the crooked smile he had tried to force out.

"This'll be the one right? Ready to take 'em down?" Jack had asked. He would never know where all that optimism came from. Looking at them both, even fully armed and armored, the smile became a little less fake. He gripped his pulse rifle with both hands. Checked his ammo. Gathered his Light. Maybe this would be the one.

"I'm right behind you."


	2. Chapter 2

Jack was never one for the "arcane" arts. Sure, he Bladedanced with the best of them occasionally. Every now and then, he would disintegrate someone in one shot. No big deal. Hunters were known to do that. And some of his favorite guns shot electricity for bullets and breathed fire like an Ahamkara.

But he knew his limits. The Traveler's light was an incredible power, but he wasn't so keen on delving deep into its mysteriesi. There were too many tall tales, too many missing Warlocks. Too much "time travel". He feared he would lose himself if he tried to contemplate it. He feared for his friends. Sixty-Eight was a thinker of a Titan if he ever saw one, but not one that would go off the deep end trying to tear holes in reality.

His other Exo friend, Blaze-13, he had doubts about. He would stare into the distance so much it seemed like he was trying to make it blink. Exos were already not well understood. An Exo Warlock was a whole other issue. Blaze spent too much time in his head. Contemplating everything, worrying about the "why". Jack was glad he hadn't dabbled much in the "Sunsinger" arts (Jack had laughed to himself about how silly the name was when he was sure no Warlocks were around).

Coming back from the dead was really no big deal now. Jack was skilled, but his ghost had pulled him out of plenty of disasters in the past. That was different though. Those "Sunsingers" pulled _themselves_ back together, from utter oblivion sometimes. His ghost he trusted. It had proven itself, it knew how to put an Awoken back together. But Jack wasn't sure that he could recreate himself if he had to.

It seemed to him like every time one of them exploded forth from the void, they left behind a piece of themselves. Seeing it happen before your eyes made you wonder, how could it not?

Everyone had heard of Dredgen Yor, or Toland the Shattered. Those who were consumed by the very thing they fought. Jack wouldn't let that happen to his friends.

Sixty-Eight's name should be spoken in the same breath as Lord Shaxx or Saladin.

No one should have to hear the tale of the fall of Blaze-13.

So he prodded and pushed, always kept them on their toes. Gave them something else to focus on. It wasn't like it was hard. He scouted for them, as any good hunter would, and they watched his six. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

The Universe was a dark and strange place. It didn't really bother him that he didn't understand it all. It wasn't his to understand. He protected those that needed protecting and gave a lot of Guardians painful lessons to mull over in the Crucible. As long as he could keep his friends from going crazy too, he could go to sleep with a smile on his face.

i 


	3. Chapter 3

There wasn't much that made Sixty-Eight nervous. He had been through far too much for that. One doesn't get to sixty eight resets without learning a few things. And unfortunately, forgetting a lot more. It was mostly during his inactive period that his mind wandered to more dangerous thoughts.

Jack would sometimes find him, stock still as only he could be, legs hanging off the edge of the Tower. The Hunter had found a new hobby in finding ways to get his attention. Buckets of water were a common weapon. He didn't have the heart to tell him it didn't really do anything, so he usually jumped back awake.

His Hunter friend was usually kind enough to listen to his musings. Offering a quip every now and then. He didn't like burdening him with his Exo problems. The Awoken had their own identity issues, Sixty-Eight didn't need to pile his on top as well.

The Deep Stone Crypt was always being analyzed by some unknown subroutine of his. With every reset, he retained more glimpses of it. He had sixty eight blurry, fuzzy images. And none of them combined in any way to make sense. Banshee-44 had opened his eyes to the strange usage of the word "Crypt".

He wasn't a big fan of the implication behind it.

No Exo he had ever met had made it inside. They always woke up before they could reach the cold, lofty doors.

Blaze-13, his new rookie friend, had surprisingly vivid memories of Deep Stone for one who had been reset so few times. They had spoken at length about their ideas many times. Often they would stay up far later than their central processors would have liked. Jack joined them sometimes, his organic thoughts brought a different perspective to their conversations.

He enjoyed the talks, even if neither of his friends thought he was in the right. Jack would always say they were thinking too much. Blaze would try to argue they weren't thinking enough. Sixty-Eight was never bothered by this, the thoughts simply kept him company when there was little else to think about.

That was the real problem, not enough to think about in the Tower. He had thanked the Traveler that Lord Shaxx kept inviting them back to the Crucible. The interim between missions was always his least favorite part of his existence.

They would ship out, crush their enemies flat, and then wait for orders. It was the waiting he despised. That was when his mind wandered. Commander Zavala had always told him that Titans weren't supposed to have wandering minds. They had to be unwavering, unflinching in the face of whatever danger came their way. Even if that danger was as mundane as being bored.

But the Crucible, that was where he thrived. Schooling the rookies always made him feel better. Though he had to be careful who he said that around (Blaze could get a little sensitive). It didn't matter how well he did, he enjoyed giving his opponents something to think about afterwards. Something they had never seen before.

He couldn't help but laugh every time Jack scolded him after he ran off saying he was going to "do something stupid".

So maybe he wouldn't figure out the mysteries of his race. Maybe no one ever would. He had made his peace with that many, many resets ago. He was content to let the past be the past.

Besides, there were plenty of "stupid" things to be done here in the present. That thought always made him smile.


End file.
